


come pick me up.

by outpastthemoat



Series: new testament [just more of the same 'verse] [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fallen Castiel, Future Fic, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Singer Salvage, Slow Burn, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outpastthemoat/pseuds/outpastthemoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dust gets kicked up somewhat after the accident.  It's almost a relief, the way certain barriers start crumbling, falling like the walls of Jericho, and one of the fallouts is that Dean and Cas finally move out of the the library.</p>
            </blockquote>





	come pick me up.

  
_I wish you’d make up my bed_   
_So I could make up my mind_   
_Try it for sleeping instead_   
_Maybe you’ll rest sometime_   
_I wish I could_   


The dust gets kicked up somewhat after the accident.  It's almost a relief, the way certain barriers start crumbling, falling like the walls of Jericho, and one of the fallouts is that Dean and Cas finally move out of the the library. 

It’s because of Jody, really.  She levels a pointed look at the at the two unmade mattresses in one corner of the library, and Dean winces at the sight: Two ancient mattresses, recovered from the basement, each covered in a mess of blankets and topped with the stupidly floral cotton sheets Sam splurged on and then left to molder in the depths of the linen closet, the ones that hadn’t been washed in weeks.

"Going for the transient look?" Jody asks dryly, holding open the front door as Dean helps Cas inside.  

And Dean hadn’t even thought about it, but yeah, that’s gonna be a problem, because he finally realizes that Cas can’t possibly sleep on the floor tonight, not with all those broken bones.

The thought makes his heart sink, because of all the strange things he’s grown accustomed to over the years this might take the cake, the way he’s gotten so used to sleeping with Cas on the floor only a few feet away, close enough that Dean could reach out and take his hand, if he wanted.

But Cas can't go upstairs, either, so Dean settles Cas on the couch by the window and tries to decide what to do.  He knows from past experience that the couch makes a rotten bed; even those lump-ridden mattresses on the floor are, amazingly, more comfortable than that couch.

And it’s far past time to change the sleeping arrangements in Bobby’s house. Dean’s known it for a while, but has successfully avoided doing anything about it.  Until now, that is. 

Because even though Cas doesn’t complain, he gets up slowly every morning, walking around with a certain stiffness in his shoulders that suggests the appalling idea of oncoming  _middle-age_ , with all the imminent threats of arthritis and back pain and hip replacements, and it might be easier for Dean to wrap his mind around the idea of Cas being a millennia-old wavelength of light than it is to think about Cas growing old.

And yeah, trust Dean to have an angel move in with him and then completely fail to provide said angel with the most basic of human comforts, like a decent wardrobe or an actual bed of his own, with box springs and a headboard and clean sheets.

But Cas seems all right on the couch for now, because he leans back against the couch and closes his eyes.  He’s asleep within minutes; Dean supposes he must’ve been given some seriously strong painkillers during his stint at the hospital.

Jody lingers in the entrance to the library, looking grim.  “He can’t stay on that couch,” she says bluntly.  “Don’t you have a real bed to put him in?”

“I  _know_  he can’t, and no, there isn’t,” Dean snaps.  Sam's room is empty, aside from the dangerously nebulous stacks of books that still line every spare inch of Bobby’s house, since Sam absconded with the California king he’d been so pleased to buy. He'd loaded it up in Bobby’s old truck and drove off, with his girly floral sheets still attached to the mattress and flapping gaily in the wind.

And Bobby's room has been off-limits. Dean hasn't even been inside the bedroom since coming back, and in all his time spent fixing the house, anything that had reminded him too strongly of Bobby had been banished to a closet down in the basement, to be kept safely hidden away under lock and key. 

But he checks the room out anyway, because Cas needs somewhere to sleep and  _goddamn_ it, he shouldn't have to feel so bad about Cas not having a real bed.  

Jody's close at his shoulder when he opens the door, and Dean almost flinches, despite the fact that he knows perfectly well Bobby's ghost has been laid to rest, and besides, if any place in this house was going to be haunted by the old bastard it'd probably be the library.

But no: It's just a room, and while there's a fine layer of dust sprinkled over everything, it's clean, and bare except for a bed that sags slightly in the middle, a nightstand, a dresser.  No wallet or keys on the nightstand, no clothes hanging over the chair in the corner by the window; it must've been Sam who'd squirreled away all Bobby's things, one of those afternoons Dean'd spent working on the new roof with Cas.  

Dean lets the door swing shut, and takes a deep breath.

"You'll need clean sheets," Jody says quietly, and there are sudden lines of weariness and hurt around her eyes.  There’s a long moment of silence after that, because even though it’s been more than a year now since Bobby died, living in his old home keeps the ache a little fresher than Dean would like.  "I'll go and grab some," she says, and slips away.  

As Jody fusses with the sheets, Dean makes the executive decision that if Cas is sleeping in the downstairs bedroom, then he is too. It’s clearly the only reasonable solution, because Cas might need his help in the night, and in that case, Dean can’t be too far away to be able to help him, and too far away is clearly defined as sleeping in solitude on the floor in the library, or being banished at Jody’s insistence to one of the upstairs bedrooms.

It doesn’t bear thinking of, so Dean doesn’t, and he doesn’t bother to wake Cas up to ask his opinion because Cas, if given the opportunity, might say  _no_.

And though Jody raises her eyebrow when Dean drags his mattress from the library to Bobby's room, glaring silently and daring her to comment, she doesn’t say a word when he pushes it against the wall, across from the bed.

“Don’t know why you boys have been sleeping in the library so long,” Jody only remarks. "I've seen jail cells with better furnishings."

Dean bends over Cas, still sleeping on the couch, and taps him lightly on the head.  “Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” he says, and Cas stirs, his eyes opening briefly.  “Let’s get you to bed.”

Cas apparently prefers to remain an inactive participant in the process; he allows Dean to haul him down the hall and deposit him on the bed without opening his eyes again, except for when Dean’s about to walk out the room to say goodnight to Jody. 

“Don’t go,” Cas says suddenly, and Dean’s chest does a funny sort of squeeze at that soft-spoken request.  

“I’ll be right back,” he promises.  “I’m not goin’ anywhere, buddy.”  

And that seems to be the right thing to say, because Cas slumps back against the pillow.  Dean waits until Jody’s out of the room before grabbing a blanket and draping it across Cas’s sleeping form, smoothing it carefully over his shoulders.

And he shouldn't be so pleased about it, a stupid little thing like Cas asking him not to go, not when life's the same as always, not when there's still things like ghosts and demons and car crashes lurking around the next corner, just waiting to send this strange sort of normal that Dean's become accustomed to straight into a tailspin.

But all the same, he can't help the stupid way his throat goes tight, the stupid way the back of his eyes ache, all because it’s  _him_  Cas is asking for, it’s  _him_  Cas wants right now, when he’s hurt and tired and vulnerable, and it’s the best feeling in the world, being wanted like that. 

But for all the walls that come down, strange new ones go up, and it leaves Dean feeling unsettled and uncertain, and it makes him do strange new things. It must be affecting Cas too, he thinks, because the next day Dean moves his mattress out of the room, at Cas's request.

"I'm fine," Cas says obstinately, while Dean tries desperately to not let his face show just how badly he's taking it. 

"I can help," Dean protests.

"Yes, you're very helpful," Cas retorts.  "Go  _away_."

Dean shuts his mouth and moves into Sam's old room.  

All the same, he can't seem to stop reaching for Cas in the days that follow the accident, little touches just to remind himself that Cas is here, a quick pat on the arm or a glancing brush on Cas's leg, propped-up on the ottoman, every time Dean walks by the couch.

But Cas doesn’t seem comfortable, because he jerks back at the unexpected contact and it hits Dean again, how he and Cas are comfortable together in so many little ways and so oddly restrained in others.

Like how Cas allows Dean to help him to the bathroom, but won’t let him stay inside while he bathes, managing somehow despite a bandaged arm bound tightly against his chest and a broken leg wrapped in plastic bags, hanging awkwardly outside the tub.

“Let me help you,” Dean says insistently, having awful visions of Cas taking a nose-dive while getting out of the tub, splattering his brains all over the filthy porcelain tiles, and fuck, when  _was_  the last time either one of them had cleaned the bathroom?

“ _No_ ,” Cas says sharply, and locks the door behind him, and the whole thing takes Dean so much by surprise that he almost forgets to feel hurt.

Cas seems to have developed a new system of personal space rules overnight: He won't let Dean change his bandages, and he gets annoyed when Dean hovers just outside the room while Cas slowly changes his clothes.

Dean tries to be tactful. 

"You don't  _have_  to put on a shirt at all," he says helpfully when it becomes apparent that Cas is having trouble getting a shirt on.  "Nobody's here, dude, it's just me, and I don't mind if you want to go  _Girls Gone Wild_  for a while."

"I  _want_  to wear a shirt," Cas growls in his Batman voice, and okay,  _fine_ , let him have it his way, even though he can't manage a t-shirt one-handed and when he attempts a button-down he can't seem to manage all the buttons.

"Dude, I carved a banishing sigil on your chest with a box cutter once, now's not the time to get shy," Dean says, exasperated, but Cas won't let him come close enough to finish buttoning his shirt.

Fine, so Cas doesn't want to walk around shirtless and Dean can't really blame him, because yeah, it  _would_  be a little weird, to be honest, but at the same time, Cas makes awful noises when trying to slip his arms through the sleeves of all his shirts and finally Dean can't take it anymore.

“Why do I have to wear this?” Cas asks suspiciously, holding up the robe Dean's handed him.  

“'Cause you’re an invalid,” Dean explains, rolling his eyes.  "Laying around in a robe all day is pretty much the only perk you're gonna get outta this, Cas."

Cas never does stop frowning about it, but it really is a hell of a lot easier for Cas to get on and off, and there's something more than a little endearing about the way Cas looks when he's wearing it, like he doesn't know whether he's more annoyed at this sudden loss of dignity or the fact that wearing the robe is actually comfortable.

Dean has secret hopes that Cas still has enough angel-juice to have extraordinary healing powers, but even after four weeks Cas's broken collarbone shows no sign of healing, and the broken bones in his foot are knitting together slowly.  

"It's normal for the healing process to slow down considerably, once you hit middle-age," the doctor tells Cas, and Dean chokes back an almost hysterical laugh because  _normal?_ Normal would be for those broken bones to mend within seconds of being snapped in half, and why oh why had Dean thought it would be a good idea to ask Cas to stay on earth in the first place?

And though it doesn't seem quite possible, the second month goes by more slowly than the first, and Dean's not sure at what point Cas becomes a collection of annoying requests, like  _Don't_   _go_  and  _I'm bored_ becauseCas hasn't taken well to being bedridden.

"You're an angel, can't you meditate or something?" he asks Cas desperately, and Cas pinches the bridge of his nose with his good hand, like he thinks  _Dean's_ the one being unreasonable here. 

“Well, I’m not going to fucking  _babysit_  you all day, man, you gotta find someway of entertaining yourself," Dean says, and beats an escape to the salvage yard, where he happily spends the next four hours lavishing attention on his poor neglected Baby.  When he finally returns to the house, Cas glares at him over a well-worn copy of  _Anna Karenina._

Dean recognizes it instantly and snatches it out of his hands.  "No dead Russian authors for you," he snaps at Cas, who at first looks startled, and then continues his quiet glower.  "They're not healthy." 

"I wasn't finished," Cas says, narrowing his eyes dangerously.

"I'll spoil the ending, then," Dean retorts.  "Chick jumps in front of a train, goes  _splat_."

"I know," Cas says with maddening calm.  "I've read it before.  I was there when it was  _written_." 

"So what's the point in reading it again?" Dean asks snidely.  "I thought an angel would have a perfect memory."

Cas looks away, picks at the corner of the blanket he's wrapped up in. He takes a few moments before he says consideringly, "Before when I read it, I understood what happened.  Now I understand  _why_." 

"Mmmhmph," Dean says in response, because he suddenly, desperately wants the conversation to be over, and he takes  _Anna Karenina_  and hides the book in the basement, hidden up in the rafters where Cas will surely never find it, and that's it. Conversation over.

But that evening, when they're sitting on the couch, watching whatever's on cable, Cas says something out of the blue.

"I didn’t want to die," Cas says suddenly.

Dean jerks his head to look at him.  Cas looks down at his lap, folds his hands together carefully.

" _What?_ " Dean asks, his heart pounding with alarm because his instinctual response to an emotional confrontation involves his fight-or-flight instincts kicking in, and since he doesn't really want to  _fight_  with Cas over something as stupid as  _Anna Karenina_  he wildly contemplates grabbing his beer and running to hide in the kitchen.

“I didn’t want to die,” Cas repeats softly.  He still isn’t looking at Dean, he’s looking down at his hands, and Dean notices that they’re not so still anymore; his fingers twitch nervously and Cas closes them into fists.  "I remember laying there on the side of the road, hearing sirens going off, and I remember thinking,  _I'm glad I'm not dead_."

Dean can't speak for a minute.  His throat aches, and so does something else, somewhere deep inside.  

“ _Good_ ," he says roughly, and squeezes the neck of his beer so tightly he's surprised it doesn't shatter.  "I’m glad you didn’t die, either,” he says quietly, and for a moment he’s not sure if Cas heard him or not.  "I’d miss your stupid angel face if you weren’t around,” he adds, because believe it or not apparently he can’t just say something  _nice_ for once.

But he risks glancing at Cas anyway.  He's looking at Dean with a curious expression on his face, eyes flickering up and down.  He opens his mouth as if to say something else, but then closes it and looks away.

After the accident, Jody'd arranged for a truck to tow the Nova back to Singer Salvage, and since then she's been tucked away behind the garage.  Dean hasn't had to look at her whenever he pulls in the driveway, hasn't  _wanted_ to look at her, because he's not quite sure what the sight of that familiar gray car will do to him and so it's not until after Cas gets the cast off his foot and the sling off his arm that they go to take a look at his car.  

Dean stares at the battered Nova, his heart pounding and his chest aching with something that has nothing to do with the new set of dents in her sides or the shattered windshield and everything to do with the thought of Cas, broken and bloodied on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, with no one looking for him for the better part of a day, hurt and alone until some Samaritan had driven past and called an ambulance.

" _I missed you_ ," he overhears Cas crooning softly to the Nova as he circles around her frame, one hand gently patting her damaged sides, and Dean finally snaps back to himself.  

“Congratulations,” he says teasingly.  “Time for your first rebuild after an accident.  Count yourself lucky, dude.  I got hit by a mac truck,  _you_  only got hit by an SUV."

Cas frowns and opens the hood with a look of dismay.  "This looks  _awful_ ," he says in tones of extreme disapproval, and Dean has to roll his eyes. 

"Look," Dean says, shoving his hands in his pockets.  "You can rebuild a junker and have a car, but it's not your  _baby_  'til you fix her up again after she gets hurt.  That's how you know she really means something," he adds, and looks up to find Cas regarding him thoughtfully. "What?" he asks roughly.  

"There's always something that needs doing," Cas says with what sounds like mild annoyance, letting the hood fall shut.  "Doesn't it ever stop?" 

"Yeah, well, it's  _supposed_  to be like that, Cas," Dean says, and he has to turn away to hide his grin.  "Wouldn't want you to get bored." 


End file.
